


Sitting

by oceanbones



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: M/M, Omorashi, Rape, Unhealthy Relationships, the omorashi is very light, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-04-04 08:32:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4131154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceanbones/pseuds/oceanbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>What he is not dealing with right now, is Caspar. Caspar who he loves, who is his roommate, and his best friend, who brings him back Nando's and cooks him shitty pizza in a frying pan, and who Won't Stop kissing him.</i>
</p><p>In which Caspar is affectionate and Joe can't distinguish platonic from romantic. And then things get sort of...morally grey.</p><p>Make sure you read the warnings please.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thundercloud

**Author's Note:**

> This was really just a writing exercise. I had something happy and innocent in mind and it turned into this filth by accident sorry.
> 
> For while you read:  
> 1\. [Storm Cellar](https://youtu.be/NSu3F18hUGY) \- Rae Cassidy  
> 2\. [Zebra](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=90ipyWYO3LM) \- Beach House  
> 3\. [Pieces Of What](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D5bOH_WL-Ts) \- MGMT  
> 4\. [Should You Return](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PUcdu2r4HGw) \- Copeland

Lifestuff, is the best Joe can do to summarize the unending obstacles that are so consistently heaped onto him. He has heard life be likened to:  
            -a tension of opposites;  
            -a power struggle;  
But stuff is more accurate. It is a mound of things you have to work through to keep your head above water, and then there are only ever additional things heaped on the pile. It is manageable when you are consistent. But dealing is a thing Joe has never had much knack for.

What he is not dealing with right now, is Caspar. Caspar who he loves, who is his roommate, and his best friend, who brings him back Nando's and cooks him shitty pizza in a frying pan, and who Won't Stop kissing him.

They are platonic kisses, is the best way Joe can describe them. That is strange in and of itself, so it's especially hard to justify them when they reach his mouth, jaw line, collarbone. Caspar has always been friendly. But there is something in the way he administers his affections that doesn't sit right with Joe.

Things begin to progress, sequentially. The kisses stop being sporadic and become routine - with every good morning or night, and every yelled _I'm home_. Joe comes to expect them, when they are bundled up in blankets on the couch, mindlessly consuming movies or games of FIFA, and Caspar crowds up a little too closely. There is always some move made, some action that teeters on the edge of more-than-friends. The most jarring of these is the time he slips in tongue.

They are propped against one another on the couch, back to back, wearing out a rainstorm. The power is vanished, and they sit in the dark, eating pork and beans from the tin. Their cameras are dead from a dayful of filming, as are their laptops, and they have no board games, or playing cards, or Oli because he has gone home. All they have in the way of entertainment is each other - the camaraderie of jokes and jump scares, heightened by the darkness. But mostly they are content with being attached, ironically, at the hip, that physical connection manifested from a wordless declaration of just being present with each other. So they are sitting, eating, quietly, accentuated by rolls of thunder, and really this is a quintessential night for some of Caspar's pseudo-kissing, Joe realizes. He is unsurprised when, upon binning his dug-out bean can, Caspar rests his face against Joe's neck and kisses.

They are comforting, lax little things, as if by and meant for two people seasoned by a thirty-year union, who have known each other far longer and experienced more together than is the case for them. Joe lets him do it, the way he always does, because if there's one thing he is for Caspar it's submissive. He is used to the pecks, the phantom mouthing that is too faint to really mean anything. And Caspar never expects him to reciprocate.

Except that this time he does - is more enthusiastic, albeit lazy, to the point where Joe has to set aside his half-eaten dinner to accommodate the ministrations. He passively lets him mouth at his neck, which tickles but is pleasant, and keeps his gaze averted. The only sounds are raindrops, lipsmacks, thunderclouds. Summer sounds, Joe thinks. But Caspar urges his face closer, so that he cannot guard himself with ignorance, and begins to kiss him at the mouth. These ones are pregnant, pointed, and Joe doesn't know what to do with that. He has always given Caspar unwavering free reign, but has consequentially cushioned himself with the reassurances of determinism. To have that comfort sequestered is unimaginably hard.

Caspar is resolute and persistent, so that Joe wonders if it is healthy for him to be friends with someone so dominant. His indecisiveness is broken by a cajoling tongue shoving up between his lips, trying to ease apart his jaws. He opens his mouth. He hadn't anticipated Caspar's knowledge of the French, which is unexplainedly thorough, would extend from language to kissing. He licks at the inside of Joe's mouth, and is as a bear tonguing peanut butter from a jar. But Joe is inert, and slightly vacant. He feels like a flower head, soft and rooted, at the mercy of its pollinator. And so he lets Caspar take.

But that is not enough to satiate him - he seems determined, for some unclear reason, to have Joe contribute. He sucks and bites and bruises him, so that Joe quells him for the sole sake of preventing any suggestive, enduring marks. Shyly, uncomfortably self-aware, Joe leans into the kisses, touches Caspar's teeth with his own meek tongue. It enthuses Caspar, so that his kisses gain momentum, and he pulls at Joe, as if trying to incorporate them into one collective thing. Joe is rattled, and a little scared. They have never progressed this far before, and at this point the friendliness feels to have evaporated. Or at least it seems so. With Caspar everything is infinitely harder, because nobody else is as weirdly affectionate. Who knows what constitutes a platonic relationship in his convoluted head? Joe isn't sure how he's supposed to work with that, the unknown. Instead he goes with what is familiar - obliging Caspar. He places tentative palms upon his chest, and hopes for some kind of good outcome.

Ideal or otherwise, it is what Caspar wanted. Abruptly he lies back, and pulls Joe on top of him. He touches his arms, waist, in eloquent strokes, heated and lazy at once, cradling him more like a baby than friend. They make out in long drawls, sleepy and content, weathering the hostility outside together. Caspar's hands are clasped behind Joe, keeping him tightly against him, so that if Joe had the gumption to leave he couldn't. They have boners, friendly ones, that Joe can feel against his thighs. It is...uncomfortable. He feels so fucked up, for having a friend with such warped ideas of friendship, but more so even because he's not entirely sure Caspar is the weird one. How is he to know whether he is misinterpreting a genuinely innocent situation? For all he knows this is how Caspar appreciates people. And yet he has never seen him this way with anyone else. Nothing else has changed between them - the way they talk or spend time together. They are otherwise so sickeningly platonic that instances like this are hard to rationalize as having actually happened. And Caspar still sleeps with girls. Joe could ask about it, should, but inertia has always been his default approach.

Caspar doesn't push him any further, is content with kissing and clutching, and keeping him there, anchored to his chest, when the cadenced lightning lulls him asleep.

* * *

 

He wakes in total darkness, the tea lights petered out and cooling, still atop Caspar. The thunder is slightly less. He has to pee - that's why the waking up. But Caspar is for all intents and purposes hugging him. He pulls away, which doesn't work, and pats his chest instead.

"Caspar," he whispers, even though the point is to wake him. There is literally no stirring, so that if Joe didn't know better he'd guess he was lying atop a corpse. He taps harder. "Caspar wake up."

When he does he only inhales, as if recovering from a deep snore, and tightens his arms.

It presses against Joe's bladder. "Come on, let me up. I need to pee."

"Hold it," Caspar whines. "This is comfortable."

"I don't care, I really need to go."

"You can wait a few hours."

"No," Joe pushes on him, "I can't. Get the hell off."

Caspar clamps stubbornly down on him, so that Joe has to squeeze his thighs together. His eyes are closed, as if he is resolute on falling back asleep this way. "Just stay here, please."

Joe struggles against him, tired and irritated and kind of desperate, and not super keen on being restrained. But the harder he tries to move, the more Caspar cinches him. That alone is enough to make him wet, so feeling embarrassed, and deeply inadequate, he surrenders. "For fuck _sake_ , okay. But if I piss all over you in the night you're cleaning it up tomorrow."

Caspar says nothing, but is probably smug although Joe can't see his face to verify it. He loosens his arms, barely, and rolls them a little so Joe is wedged between him and the backrest.

"Dickhead," Joe says, trying to lie without putting pressure on his bladder. He rests his forehead under Caspar's chin, and does not sleep easily.

* * *

 

Grace of graces, the second time he wakes there is no piss puddle to be accounted for, although if Caspar doesn't let him up soon he thinks there will be. "Caspar," he keens. "Please wake up."

But he sleeps like the dead.

"Get up get up get up, I have to _pee_." He all but punches Caspar's dumb chest.

Caspar rouses, and catches his hands, and holds them to his chest.

Joe wrestles against Caspar's one, much larger hand, which holds both of his own. "You big idiot, I'm gonna _piss_ all _over_ you get **off** _._ "

"It's like five in the morning," Caspar grumbles. "Just go to sleep."

"My bladder is literally exploding right now so I'm sorry if I'm a little restless." He shoves, and puts all his weight behind it. "Are you pranking me or something? Because this isn't funny, and unless you want to be covered in urine in a second you'd better let me up."

"You can literally hold it for another hour. Stop being stubborn."

"I'm being _human_. Why won't you let me go?"

"I like having you close. Just settle down. You can go at like six or something."

Joe quivers, angry, desperate, and entirely frustrated. "You're so _weird_ and _controlling_." But he doesn't struggle anymore, reigns himself into Caspar's arms, thighs pressing uselessly together. Caspar is tired and complacent. His hands drop a bit to Joe's hips, and one to his thigh, and he pulls at it so he has a knee between Joe's legs.

Joe doesn't really understand. Is it supposed to be sexual? Or affectionate somehow? Or just a more comfortable position. For him it makes things that much harder. His dick swells against Caspar's leg, ballooned with blood and probably some piss. He wants to grab at it and squeeze the tip so that he doesn't leak, but touching your junk is just kind of not a thing you do in the company of friends. He spends the hour clutching handfuls of Caspar's sweater, and pulling at especially painful intervals.

At six, which he knows it is from legitimately watching the clock for sixty minutes, he has to wake Caspar again, who is no less grumpy than the first time.

"You said six," Joe reminds him, trying to be mild.

"I said six or something."

"But I have to go _now_ , what is wrong with you? What is your fixation with putting me in compromising positions?"

Caspar adjusts them, for the third time, so that he is on top of Joe, and kisses him.

Joe turns his head. "Caspar Caspar this is the actual worst idea - we have morning breath and I'm two seconds from wetting myself, please get off."

He can feel Caspar's morning wood pressing into his thigh, and is unsure whether it is intentional. Caspar seems insatiable lately, as if there is nothing Joe can do to appease him. He tries anyway. He kisses back, desperately, holding Caspar's face, hoping that if he is enthusiastic Caspar will be quelled enough to let him go. It seems to work. Caspar is totally responsive, and pulls at Joe with just as much avidity. He kisses, tonguey and demanding, hands groping untowardly up and down Joe's body - his back and sides, and on his thighs. And subtly, he rocks, almost as if rutting. And Joe wonders how the hell he is supposed to be okay with this if all they are is friends, because humping your platonic buddy's leg? _Not_ cool, in literally any facet.

But it has the desired effect. Caspar, probably too worked up to lie there anymore, sits them up so Joe's legs are splayed open on his lap, and kisses him, and pushes him to stand.

If his boxers have the faintest of damp spots before he gets to the bathroom, he is too impatient to notice.


	2. Cat's Eye Philosophy

The struggle continues after that, extends from pee holding to literally every other facet of their relationship. Whatever Caspar can deprive him of, he does - sleep, territory, dignity. He places things on the tops of shelves, where he knows Joe can't reach, and sits on his bed whenever Joe wants to be alone, because he knows he isn't strong enough to move him. One night they are watching a movie, and he strategically swipes the phone from Joe's texting hands.

Joe swats for it. "Give it back, Caspar, why did you take it?"

Caspar fends him off, easily. "You're not paying attention, so your phone," he slips it into his pocket, "goes here."

He lunges at him, uselessly, trying to reach for it but being intercepted every time. "You don't get to tell me when to use my phone. Give it back."

"Watch the movie."

"Caspar," he says, in as scolding a tone he can manage. "Give me my phone right now."

He grabs for it, but Caspar catches his wrist and pulls, so that he is pressed abruptly very close, sitting half in his lap. Caspar watches him, closely so that they almost have to cross their eyes to see each other. Joe tries to pull back.

"Whatever, keep it. Be a dick."

But Caspar doesn't let go. Joe pushes at him, lightly, trying to seem compliant.

"Come on, let's just watch." He pats at Caspar's chest.

It is strange, feeling nervous of your best friend, unsure of their intentions. What really is he afraid of? Some kind of violence? Is Caspar really capable of that? And how have things progressed to the point where Joe is actually expecting that of him. How unhealthy is that, to live in a house where you don't feel safe? Joe isn't sure why the feeling of danger.

He tries to be unassuming though, because he doesn't know how else to get secure again. He strokes at Caspar's shoulder. "Didn't you want to watch?"

Caspar thumbs his lips, and releases his wrists, and they watch while he holds Joe at the hip.

And they don't get very far before, predictably, he starts to get friendly, and really Joe wonders, what was the point in confiscating his phone if they weren't going to pay attention anyway? Caspar likes his neck today, kisses it with fervor. And then he starts to suck.

Joe winces. "No hickeys, please. I've got videos to shoot."

Caspar bites down a little.

"Caspar," he yelps. "Not my neck. Can't we just kiss or something?"

He detaches for a second. "Stop being so disagreeable. What is with you lately?"

"I literally haven't been the one forcing his way, are you kidding me? And you're the most stubborn person I know, and it sucks that you can manipulate me just because you're stronger."

"But that's not the only reason is it?"

"What?"

Caspar bites at his chin. "You'd do what I said anyway. You're submissive to me."

Joe shoves at him, hard. "Fuck you, Caspar."

Naturally, he doesn't fuck off in any way, and pins Joe to the cushions. Joe kicks and elbows for all he is worth, suddenly so much more frustrated than he had been, with Caspar because he is a raging dickhead, and with himself for being inferior.

"What is your _problem_ get _off!_ Why are you being such a jerk to me?"

"What I'm being is what I am by nature."

"An asshole?"

"Dominant. That's why we mesh so well together - we're literally made to complement each other."

If there's something Joe truly doesn't give a fuck about it's biology, and the idea that he can't control what is innate. He socks Caspar in the face.

Caspar bites him, hard in the neck, so that if Joe had been worried about a hickey before it was totally in vain. He bites until Joe is forced limp out of fear, and then clamps down for no reason other than to hear him yelp more. Joe is totally loose, tense only where his hands are clutching Caspar's shirt out of pain. He keeps his mouth shut this time.

Caspar pulls away with pinkish teeth, tinted that way by bloodied saliva, although Joe doesn't look. He keeps his head turned to the side, scared to face him. How, he thinks, bloody and sweaty and scared fucking scared, did he get here. He only talks again when Caspar starts to touch him.

"Caspar," he whispers weakly. "I'm sorry, but please not that. Anything else just. I don't want to do that with you."

He watches Joe with vacant, lusty eyes. "But I do."

It is terrifying, hearing him talk like that. And so, so tainted by betrayal. Never before has Caspar intentionally hurt him, or at least not seriously. This is scary, a new and dangerous side of him that Joe isn't thrilled to be meeting. It is unpredictable. And he is literally defenseless - Caspar is worlds bigger than him, thicker and solid with great packs of muscle, and taller too. How is he meant to protect himself?

"Please," he says, muffled by Caspar's mouth. He turns his head. "Can we at least talk first? Please, Caspar." He is scared, and becomes meek, trying to appeal to whatever compassion Caspar might have hidden beneath his indifference.

But Caspar seems finished with talking about it. He yanks at Joe's jeans until they give and unbutton, and pulls them, and his boxers, far down his legs.

Joe is starting to cry. "Please. I just want to talk to you first."

He untucks himself from his own pajama bottoms and shoves up, dryly, into Joe, who jerks and thrashes.

"Please please get out, please," he babbles. "This hurts, it really _hurts_."

But when has Caspar ever been in the habit of listening to him? He fucks him, because that's what he wants, and Joe has to deal like always. It is painful in ways beyond physically, and the fact that it gives Joe a boner is so hard to come to terms with. He cries while Caspar fucks him, legs slipped from his jeans and hitched up under Caspar's arms, gripping his shoulders for purchase so that it isn't as jarring. It hurts in the worst way, deep in his body and mind alike, thrumming through him in a way he can't tune out. It chafes his asshole, and scrambles his guts. And Caspar is all too gratified by it. Raped is not what he imagined he would be tonight.

He comes so sickeningly far before Caspar does, over his own stomach, stuttering and rutting and moaning against his will, and feels so deeply ashamed. He comes down in loud, ebbing waves, which enthuse Caspar all the more. He is as a shell after, being stabbed and jostled, hands no longer touching Caspar at all. When Caspar comes it is much later, and inside of him, and upon pulling out he rests his heavy dick on Joe's already cum stained t-shirt.

Joe had never taken him for a post coital cuddler, but Caspar has been full of surprises lately. He flips them so that Joe is wedged between his body and the backrest, still naked from the waist down, no doubt leaking the cum from his asshole all over the couch cushions. He doesn't talk to Caspar, ask if he can leave, because why, of all Joe's requests, would that be the one he listens to. Instead he curls in on himself as best he can, and waits.

* * *

 

They spend the night there, on the neck-cricking couch, and for once it is Caspar who wakes first. When Joe sequentially stirs, he is watching him, stroking his face, hair, hip, and seeming worlds less threatening than last night. In fact he nearly looks apologetic.

"Hi," he says, touching Joe's cheek.

Furiously, is how Joe should react. He has legitimately been raped, by his friend, whose face has since transformed from that of a psychopath to one of dopey indifference. He should talk about that. "Hi," is what he says instead.

"Sleep okay?"

He is bare from the waist down, and cold because of it, sticky with sweat and spit and two kinds of cum, and his entire left side is numb from sleeping on it a full night. Okay is the opposite of what this has been. "Sure."

Caspar traces imaginary lines down his hair. "I didn't really mean to do all of that last night. I guess you kind of wound me up. I'm sorry if it made you uncomfortable."

Platonic, rapey sex? By your best friend? Joe wonders, flatly, why he should feel discomfort at that. Despite what should logically follow, he can't help the next words that jump from his mouth: "I'm fine, it's fine."

Joe feels then that his only real talent is appeasing Caspar, since that is exactly what happens. "Okay."

And yet Joe does not himself get to be okay. He still has to deal.

Caspar spends the day out somewhere. It is the actual ideal opportunity for Joe himself to leave, change the locks, tell someone about what happened. Why then, does he not take advantage? He waits inertly at home for Caspar to return, and then doesn't talk to him anyway because there is a girl in tow. He listens to them fucking, on the couch where it had only just been him in her place, in the middle of the flat which is probably intentional, as if Caspar is flaunting the fact that Joe is too amenable to walk in on them, and wonders why his overwhelming thought is whether this means he and Caspar are platonic still.

* * *

 

He tries to be more cooperative after that, to avoid another confrontation. When Caspar asks for his phone he gives it, necks when he says, doesn't even try to push him away anymore when he wants to be alone. And things go smoothly, but he feels like a ghost, drifting through the flat as some shell of himself. Or as if he is in stasis - a limbo of unresolved feelings. It is so troubling, that Caspar's affections are the thing on the forefront of his mind. Why, he wonders. Why that?

And the power struggle begins to demystify - that is really the basis of every relationship isn't it? A division of leverage, and the one with more control is the one who flourishes. He listens to Caspar fucking the girls sometimes, while he lies on his bed as a husk of his old self, and thinks that makes a lot of sense.


	3. Staying Doesn't Always Have To Hurt

They have friends over, and sit tiredly together on the couch after they leave. Joe is holding his head, closing his eyes, thinking about going to sleep. Caspar is watching him.

"Did you have fun?"

He doesn't open them. "Sure. It was nice."

Caspar sidles a little closer, leans into him, more comforting than suggestive. "I liked it. But I'm glad to be just with you now."

Joe doesn't really know what that means. He regards him though, and wonders if the feeling is mutual. Does he want to be alone with this man, who sexually assaulted him? If not he should have left earlier. "It's good to have the house empty."

"It's good," Caspar says, touching Joe's cheek, "to be alone with you."

And Joe is more fed up than scared. He just does not want to deal with this stuff right now, with Caspar being friendly even though he will inevitably be the same way with any assortment of girls later. There is just so, so much stuff, exhausting stuff, that he wants to shove aside for a different day. He kisses Caspar's cheek, because that is the only way he can see himself getting out of this without provoking him. "I think I'm gonna head to bed."

Caspar catches his hip anyway before he gets up. "Sleep in my room tonight."

And what choice does Joe have? He isn't about to antagonize the six foot something Hercules of a man who he is trapped in a house with. He follows Caspar to his bedroom, and lies boxer-clad under the covers. It would be easy to sleep, even if he is nervous doing it next to Caspar, but he doesn't get a chance anyway because that is not what Caspar wants. Caspar spoons up behind him, knees interlocking back to front, as if Joe is sitting in his lap but while lying down, mouths at his neck. Joe could kind of cry, because this proves that he can actually never get away, no matter what measures he tries to take. He resigns himself though to obliging Caspar tonight.

He twists around in Caspar's arms and kisses him on the mouth, holds his jaw, tries to speed up the process so that he can be done and fall asleep faster. And it exhilarates Caspar. He pulls at Joe's waist, flips them so that Joe is lying atop his chest, slides his leg between Joe's, and really that is more than Joe was expecting from tonight. He had hoped for lazy making out, but a repeat of that night on the couch is looking more like what Caspar has in mind. And Joe is just not keen on that. He pulls apart from Caspar, looking down at him, touching his hair affectionately.

"Can I blow you?"

He can feel Caspar's dick twitch from where it is pressing against his ass. Caspar lets go of him so he can pull it from his boxers, and eagerly pushes his head down onto it. Joe chokes a little. Now that he is not pinned beneath Caspar as he was that first time they blurred the lines of sex and friendship, he can see how fucking big it is. Or rather he saw it fleetingly, because now it is jammed inside his mouth. He wonders how it had possibly fit up his ass. It is the kind of size where he wishes he could dislocate his jaw just to accommodate it better, and Caspar holding his head securely down isn't helping. He forces himself to take it though, and when Caspar gives him some leniency he sucks hard. Caspar is wrecked, eyes heavy lidded and lusty, rutting up into his mouth. Is it wrong for Joe to feel faintly proud? Caspar pries him off before he can think too much on that, and flips them around.

"What," Joe says, lips stringy with precum.

Caspar kisses it away, and starts to pull down Joe's boxers.

He makes a desperate grab for them. "Caspar I'm okay. Can't we just take care of you?"

Caspar looks disoriented. "You don't...want to sleep with me?"

"It isn't that, it's not that at all," Joe backpedals. "I'm just...sore. And tired. And I'd rather give pleasure right now than get it."

"I want to have sex with you, Joe."

"We will, just. Please not right now."

Caspar isn't convinced. "Why would you do that Joe? Why would you start something like this if you didn't plan to see it through?"

"I can still _finish_ you though, let me back on."

But Caspar keeps him pinned with his body. "Why don't you want to have sex with me?"

"Because you've been dabbling in the cunts of a hundred different women and I don't want to _do this_ like that. Can you imagine how that feels for me? Getting fucked and then set aside so you can get your rocks off in some girls? I'm not some _toy_ Caspar, I have feelings." He cringes inside. He hadn't meant to admit as much.

"Feelings."

" _Yes_ feelings. Just because I'm subservient doesn't mean I'm mindless, or heartless, or feelingless. I'm a human being and I like boys and I don't like it when they're mean to me."

"So then," Caspar says, looking down but avoiding Joe. "I'm a boy, that you like?"

"Yeah Caspar," Joe sighs, and shrugs tiredly. "Sorry. It's not like I wanted you to be but it is what it is."

"But I like you back. I've been kissing you. Didn't you notice?"

That...clears some things up. But, "You throw yourself at everyone because you're freakishly affectionate. What do you want me to say? And this could have been a no strings attached situation for all I knew, and then you slept with all those women while we were in the middle of it. How am I supposed to interpret that?"

Caspar sits back and tugs at his scalp. "I didn't...know whether you were reciprocating. I always had to force myself on you. I couldn't tell if you felt something genuine."

"Why didn't you just ask me?"

"Because I don't work that way. I'm used to pushing what I want on people."

"Yeah. I know. But don't you understand that that's like, super immoral in certain situations? Especially where sex is concerned. As in it's criminal."

Apparently he does have some conscience, because he looks vaguely guilty. "I know. I've been pretty horrible to you."

Somehow, despite all that has happened, what Joe can't stand the most is that face he's making, and all he really wants is to make it go away. "It's not your fault. You're naturally dominant - you can't change biology."

"Are you upset with me?"

"Yeah," he says honestly. "But not as much because of that." For some fucking fucked up reason that he doesn't really want to psychoanalyze.

Caspar waits for him to elaborate.

He sighs. "I'm mad about the girls, mostly. That made me feel so bad."

"I'm really sorry," Caspar says, and seems earnest. "But you have to know there was nothing to that. I just didn't know about us."

"And do you now?"

"I...think so. Like, we're together now aren't we?"

Joe shrugs. "Are you asking me?"

"Well yes. Can we date?"

In the strangest, most convoluted way, he is relieved. "Yeah." Caspar kisses him. "I can't believe you didn't just force a relationship on me in the first place."

"Joe," he whines, warningly.

Joe kisses Caspar with his arms around his neck, deeply, pregnantly, trying not to acknowledge the impropriety gnawing at his stomach. Caspar is just as eager, but softer somehow, as if trying for once to be delicate with him. It is kind of refreshing, but not the reason they mesh so well.

"You won't break me," he says.

The thing about doms, is that they don't need any stoking. Immediately he stops holding back and picks up where they left off, yanking at Joe's boxers. "Sex. Can we do sex now?"

Joe nods, spreads his legs.

Caspar, it seems, prefers things slightly non consensual even when they aren't. But that's okay with Joe, because he likes it that way too. Basically he wants to do it dry again, which Joe is a little conflicted about because ow fucking _ow_ , but which is somehow so, so hot to think about. He lets him do it. He clutches Caspar's shoulders, probably hard enough so that he's breaking skin, or at least bruising it, trying to ease the stretch on his asshole. The thing about anal, is that it aches the stomach, in the most horrendous way because an asshole is literally part of the intestines. And stomach pains are among the worst kinds. He tries to get Caspar to go in slow.

"You're okay," Caspar tells him. "You took it fine last time."

"Last time you raped me," Joe pants. "Slow down please."

He does, minutely. And Joe gets it, he does, because he happens to be very tight and sticking your dick in anything without being able to move it is torturous. So he is understanding when, inevitably, Caspar breaks and pushes hard into him.

He nearly dry heaves though. "Slow slow, please not so fast."

But if he has learned anything from the past few weeks, it is that Caspar loves to have him in compromising situations. He stabs deeply into him, jostling, jarring his stomach, so that Joe grips him with white knuckles, choking out partially from gratification but more so pain. That combination is...not as bad as Joe would have supposed. He enjoys himself this time, not as preoccupied with feeling guilty for it, for liking the beat of Caspar's dick, the way he holds his hips with bruising attention, how he simultaneously cares for Joe and wants to hurt him. There is still some wrongness itching him, but for the time being it is muted.

He quivers around Caspar, and begins to feel stomach butterflied, which he recognizes as the sucking pull of cum pressurizing in his balls. He comes so hard that he wonders fleetingly if he has consequentially peed himself. It paints their stomachs, cooling and congealing, and just as last time he is forced to lie there and take Caspar's cock until he comes sequentially. It is hard being a guy, he thinks, with no cunt for fucking. Dicks weren't built for assholes. How much less painful would this be if he were a woman?

Anyway, Caspar does come eventually, after a fucking extravagant display of his stamina. It fills Joe with waves of creamy cum, shooting up so far that he wonders whether they will hit his stomach. Coming down this time is nice, and different from the first in so many ways: they are equally naked, warm under the sheets, facing each other so that Joe can kiss him if he wants. And he actually _does_ want to this time. Caspar has collapsed on him, pressing down on his chest, and it is a little hard to breathe this way. He shoves him.

Caspar, miracle of miracles, obliges _him_ for once. He rolls them over so that Joe is resting on his chest, cum stained though it is, and kisses him deeply at the forehead. "You're a good boyfriend."

Joe presses his head into Caspar's neck. "We haven't been dating more than ten minutes."

"You let me dry fuck you. You're a _great_ boyfriend."

He shrugs, and is meek. "I like when you're rough with me."

Caspar's face blooms slowly into a smirk, so that his voice hits that goofy, deep register when he talks. "When I boss you around?"

He nods, and is tinged red by a body blush.

"I like it when you're cute and submissive."

"I'm really not that submissive. I literally punched you in the face before."

"Because you like being difficult."

It's true, kind of. But also he's just not keen on being genuinely taken advantage of. "Whatever, Lee. Just don't think this means you can be a controlling dickhead all the time. Just because I'm subservient doesn't mean I'm inferior or anything."

"I know buddy," Caspar says, being delicate for probably the first time in his life. He kisses Joe, pregnantly, and then slaps his ass, which totally ruins the effect. "But telling you what to do is quite a lot of fun."

Joe isn't sure why he loves the idiot like he does, or why this relationship is so important. Maybe, he thinks, Caspar is vital to him, to depleting his comfort zone. Without his persistence, unhealthy though it was, they would likely be nowhere. Without him, Joe would be a little saner, and a lot in stasis.


End file.
